


Nested

by idyll



Category: Jossverse RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-31
Updated: 2005-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight but exist nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nested

James used to kill time with puzzle books. Work his brain until he got frustrated with trying to figure out the logic of seven different people going to seven different stores to purchase seven different things. He'd save those for last, because inevitably he'd toss the book out after reading the clues just once.

But he liked the one where he had to find a shitload of words in one long word. He used to spend days on those, staring at the ten-letter word until his eyes crossed, and refusing to look at the answers in the back of the book until he was positive he'd found every word he was gong to find.

Words hidden within words. Reminds him of those Russian nesting dolls. Gives him a sense of moreness to the world. Everything large is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight. That just hide away unnoticed until someone actually tries to see them.

He's gotten used to looking for the things that are hidden away, and it's not something he can really turn off, though he wishes to hell he could.

He's been in his trailer for half an hour. Purposely hightailed it off the set before Chris could catch his eye. The knock is expected. So is Chris opening the door without waiting for James to tell him to come in. Two of Chris' guitars seem to be living in James' trailer, along with a stash of his beer. His second home. No knocking required.

"You ran off, man," Chris says, closing the door behind him. "You wanna work on that bridge some more?"

James rubs his face and wonders when the fuck he got so damn old. Had to have been a while ago. Probably got sucked into the perpetually twenty-six crap of the show. Easy to happen when he's living it fourteen hours a day, half a year. He's in his damn forties and his patience for early-thirties drama is gone. Long gone.

Something bounces off his head and he blinks at the guitar pick that lands on his thigh, then at Chris' shit-eating grin. Today is just like all the previous days he and Chris have hung out in the trailer at the end of the day. Except it's not, because James saw the smaller words hidden in the larger word that is Chris and David.

"I'm not playing this game," he says flatly, and Chris' grin melts away by degrees.

"What are you talking about?"

"You. Dave. Leave me out of it."

Chris freezes for an instant, eyes wide and unblinking, then he runs a hand through his longish hair, messing up the camera-friendly style. "Fuck," he mutters. "He told you?"

James arches a brow. "Yeah, right. Because we're buddies. He tells me everything." He rolls his eyes and Chris frowns at him. "I figured it out on my own, and I don't want to be pulled into the middle. So take yourself off somewhere else, all right?"

There's anger hovering just under James' surface, and he knows it's showing, knows it's telling Chris more than James wants him to know. And maybe he also knows that giving Chris anger just asks for anger in return. Good ol' boy doesn't simmer, he explodes.

Chris stalks further into the trailer, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "You're a fucking piece of work, you know that? I can't just hang out with you. I've got to be using you and it's got to be connected to shit that went down three years ago. Nice opinion you have of me."

Yeah, James is way too old for this shit. "Look, that's not what I meant, okay?"

But Chris isn't buying that. "Yeah, actually, it was. But, hey--it's your trailer. You want me to go, I'll go."

Chris turns around and James feels himself moving without having decided to do so. His hand wraps around Chris' arm, flesh against flesh, and James can feel a shivering tension in Chris' muscles, can feel a pliancy come into his own.

The two of them have spent hours alone together in this small space, and James is built upon and stacked and nested with smaller things that don't try to steal the spotlight but exist nonetheless.

"And speaking of playing games..." Chris' voice is tired and a little bitter and James has to wonder what else is nested in the other man that James hasn't yet looked for.

"I'm not--I don't play games."

"Shit, man. That's all you fucking do. Not on purpose, but you do it."

What the hell can he say to that? James isn't sure. He's never been good with words, with using them to let people in. But his hand is still on Chris' arm, and he tightens his grip. Steps closer, and he can feel the heat coming off of Chris' body.

"Stay," James says. "We'll work on the bridge."

Chris' turns his head, and his eyes are narrowed. "I should tell you to go to hell, you know."

James nods. "Hoping you won't."

There's a pause, and then Chris moves around so that he's facing James again, but he doesn't increase the distance between them, and he makes sure that James' hand stays where it is. His eyes are intense and he asks, "Why do you want me to stay?"

The moment is nested with a million damn things that make James want to step away and crack a joke. That would be the smart thing to do, but he's notorious for doing the dumb thing more often than not, and who the hell is he to flout tradition?

So instead of bringing things back where they should be, he follows Chris' lead and lets them veer off where they shouldn't go.

"Because I like having you here," he says quietly, and the statement itself is innocuous on its own, but Chris eyes get dark and hungry and maybe he used to kill time with puzzle books too.

***

Everything changes the next week, and it's not that they're pretending everything is the same, they're just not talking about what's different. They still play music because they used to and they're still trying to figure out what they should do now.

Chris knows things are going to reach a breaking point soon, would have reached them a while ago except that James is a prickly thing. Perceptive enough to pick up on what no one else does, but so bogged down with his own personal shit that he can never figure out the right angle. He's resigned himself to waiting for James to catch on to where he wants things to go. A mind like James', and that's all a person can do. Because outright telling does nothing but breed disbelief and insecurity.

It's damn sad, in a way, but mostly it's just frustrating. Chris has been trying to bring things around with James since his first damn day back on the show, and at the rate it's taking James to pick up on that, Chris' latest stint will be over.

He knows that James never bought the guitar playing, which was the only way he could think of to actually get time alone with the other man. James knows enough about where his own talents do and do not lay that Chris couldn't fool him on that front. But how the hell James' mind made a connection between Chris hanging out with him, and what happened with Chris and Dave three years ago, is something Chris thinks he'll never figure out. Thinks it says a lot about his good mental health that he can't.

It's been a long day on set and Chris collapses on the sofa in James' trailer, the idea of even picking up his guitar too exhausting to seriously contemplate. The day officially ended half an hour ago, and they've both changed out of work clothes and, strangely enough, messed up their hair.

James' hair looks almost normal when it's not plastered to his skull like a fucking helmet. The color's hellishly unnatural, yeah. But when it's sticking up in careless disarray, it's all Chris can do to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of it while he fucks James' mouth with his tongue.

"Son of a bitch," James breathes. "Talk about rough. I'm tired of these last minute script changes. Drives me nuts."

Chris rolls his head on the sofa back, gets a view of James' profile. "Screws us all up, man."

After a few minutes of slow blinking and silence, Chris rubs his face with both hands and decides caffeine is in order. Stands up and has to climb over James' sprawled legs to go to the mini-fridge. Makes it halfway before he stops, straddling James without making any actual contact, and looks down at him.

"Caffeine boost?" he asks, and because he's looking closely enough, he can see the way James' breath hitches for a second before he nods.

Takes his time in swinging his other leg over James' legs, and there must be something real fucking interesting on James' thigh, because he's staring really hard at it. Little smug grin on Chris' face as he pulls the fridge open, which falls away in horror when he sees the cans.

"Dude," he exclaims, holding up one bright orange can like it's going to bite him. "Sunkist?"

James curls his lips. "Don't even ask. Should be some Red Bull in there."

Chris shoves the squat, offensive cans out of the way until the Holy Grail that is the slender, sleek Red Bull can comes into view. Oh, and look, it's got a friend hiding behind a container of food.

"Don't have to explain. I get it." Tosses a can to James and gestures with his own at the other man's orange shirt. And, okay, so the color looks good on him. Still. "You've gone all freaky and started color-coordinating your beverages with your wardrobe."

James flips him off, smiles up at him when he has to step over the outstretched legs again. "All the cool kids are doing it, but you're shit out of luck. Don't think they have any flannel patterned beverage containers."

"You're a fucking comedian. Really. Need to take that act on the road."

They get some laughing in, some more fingers directed at each other, and then they fall silent. And it's all gosh-golly-gee-whiz-swell that he and James aren't sitting here with a load of awkward tension. Really it is. But, holy hell, there are better things they could be doing than enjoying comfortable silence.

And James' mind is more disturbing than Chris has given him credit for, because all of a sudden he's *right fucking there*.

"You didn't start coming around for the music," James says slowly, finger tapping against the Red Bull can. He's looking at nothing in particular in front of him, eyes narrowed in thought or concentration or something. "And it wasn't because you were trying to avoid Dave."

"Right on both counts," Chris says carefully.

It's better to let James follow along his own path to something. Chris has learned that by watching James play the guitar, fumbling fingers tripping over themselves and struggling to figure out what Chris slightly repositioning James' finger would take care of. James has to get to things on his own terms, his own way and it's always the hard way.

When Chris doesn't say anything else, James cuts a quick look in his direction. Shifty eyes sliding away before Chris can read them. "Guess that has me wondering why the hell you *did* start coming around."

Chris leans forward, tosses his empty can into the trash basket, then shifts so that he's sitting mostly sideways, getting an eyeful of that orange shirt. Of those faded blue jeans that are thin with age and washing and are probably softer than any of the flannel shirts James ribs him about.

"You sure you want the answer to that question? Because, it's a 'can't go back' situation."

And it's a thing of beauty, James slamming his eyes shut and sucking in a quick, shallow breath. James' hand clenching around the can and rending the metal into sharp angles that freakishly resemble his cheekbones if Chris squints.

Then he stands up, hand loosening on the can as he walks with deliberate steps to the trash and drops it in. His back is to Chris, and there's a tightness to his spine that's full of the right kind of tension.

"Yeah, I do," James says.

 

***

James doesn't know what he was expecting. Maybe something not good, maybe something great. Fuck if he knows, really. This is what he avoids; this is why he's made do in recent history with nameless adorers who don't give a fuck about him, who only think they know him. It's a goddamn guaranteed situation, isn't it? They want to fuck Spike, or they want to fuck him because he plays Spike.

It's simple and there's no question about anything.

This? The very opposite of simple. The antithesis of a guarantee. It's too close, too personal, and it's bringing up a million insecurities that he buried and pretended were gone for good.

He wants to take the words back. Wants to take the damn week back. Jump in the Way Back Machine and let Chris walk out of the trailer instead of asking him to stay and work on the fucking bridge--and could he have been more pathetic with that line?

If there's one thing he's good at, it's beating himself up, and he's in rare form right now. Kicking himself six ways from Sunday and about ready to run screaming from his own trailer. He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't hear Chris move, just jumps when there's suddenly a body pressed against his. Wide chest against his narrower back, warm breath hitting him right behind his ear and making his own breath shudder.

Chris dips his head, forehead nuzzling the crook of James' neck, one hand creeping around James' waist tentatively, soft pressure against his abdomen pulling James back so that he can feel Chris' hard on through two layers of denim.

James is so thick and heavy now it's like he's moving through something viscous even though he's not moving, just sinking a little more against Chris every time he exhales, just tilting his head further and further to the side so that Chris can bury his face there, lips brushing over sensitive skin.

"This," Chris says, mouth against James' neck, hand sinking down to rub James' hardening cock. "This is why."

Son of a bitch, it's the best damn reason James has ever heard in his life, though that opinion is probably being influenced by Chris' talented hand, which is stroking him hard and slow. But they've gone right to the middle, bypassed the beginning, and James has a thing for the beginning.

Turns around, and Chris' face stays at his throat, lips parting and tongue swiping hard enough to make James' back arch in response and Chris laugh smugly. Yeah, well, Chris isn't the only one good with his tongue. James brings a hand to the back of Chris' head, sinks his fingers into that thick brown hair and tilts Chris' face up.

And, yeah, this is what James likes. Lips and tongues and slickness and hands running along backs, scrambling for purchase. Real kissing. Not stage kissing. The kind of kissing that teenagers do and can last for hours, though he doesn't plan on hours for this, great as it fucking is. Seems like Chris feels the same way. He guides James back and to the side, pushes him against the thin wall of the trailer and, please God don't let anyone else be haunting the lot this damn late. Last thing either of them needs are whispers and looks and tabloid articles.

Chris is against him then, and all thoughts of scandal fly out the window and who the fuck cares if the E! True Hollywood Story people come strolling in with cameras on them? Because Chris is pushing against him, rubbing their cocks together and James' nerve endings are firing out of control, and they're still kissing.

James fumbles for Chris' hands, holding on tight, and Chris lifts them, holds them against the wall on either side of James' shoulders, his pelvis rolling like something silken and velvet against James. And he needs air, can't get enough through his nose, and he hates to do it but he has to pull his mouth away from Chris'.

"Know how fucking long I've wanted to do this?" Chris asks him, his voice rough and growling, sex laced with danger and wound through with his southern drawl. Gives James an unexpected thrust and his eyes glitter when James gasps. "Yeah, that's what I wanted to see."

He rolls his hips again, hands clenching around James' when another gasp issues. And, goddamn, it's been too long since it's been like this. Since it's been about him, not Spike or he who plays Spike, and he's probably the most contrary fuck, but whatever.

"Jesus Christ," James chokes out, his own hips working frantically against Chris', rubbing and thrusting and rolling, and even with the layers between them, James can feel Chris. Feel the length of him, bound by cloth, throbbing and hard.

Chris tangles one hand in James' hair, leans his forehead against James', and everything beneath their waists gets more frantic, more needy.

"Oh, hell. James. Jamesjamesjamesjames."

James' hips jerk uncontrollably, and Chris' other hand comes down, takes hold of a hip, and brings them together with swirls and short, almost-hard up thrusts. With James' name falling from his lips in a chant. With a handful of Chris' hair in James' fist. With body heat and sweat and bunched muscles.

And still, that chant, and James starts to curl in on himself. His face falls against Chris' neck, mouth opening to suckle skin before his teeth graze gently and Chris spasms so damn hard he loses the rhythm and slams himself against James with no real thought in his head.

Oh. Yes. Fucking yes. Small, anticipatory smile on James' lips, and he waits for Chris to go back to the sweet little movements before he finds muscle with teeth and digs with just enough pressure to feel, but not enough to be all pain.

And it's all instinct now. Rough and hard, and it's better in a different way than what they were doing before. Chris' lips crash down on James' again, and they're grunting when they get air, breathing obscenities at one another, and James is going to have bruises from getting pushed against the wall.

"Oh, God," James groans, head thrown back, hands on Chris' shoulders. "Real thing's better than jerking off."

Chris pushes harder against him, gives him eyes that are all pupil, says, "Keep. Fucking. Talking."

This is also something James is good at. Smirks at Chris, all pouting lips, and he knows that his eyes are just as black as Chris' are right now. "What about? About laying on that couch after you leave and taking my cock out?"

And Chris stops, cocks pressed so hard between them that it's almost uncomfortable. "Yeah," he whispers, the word falling off and catching back right in the middle.

James licks his lips, arches into the circles that Chris is making with his hips, the two of them still tight against one another. "I'd jerk off, thinking abut sucking your cock until you shot right down my fucking throat."

Chris jerks against him, muscles bunching up so damn much that James can feel it. "You're good with that mouth. I can tell."

"I'm damn good," James breathes. "Could make you scream when you come. Let you fuck my mouth." And he's been with enough fawning fans that he knows what kind of picture he makes on his knees, knows what gets people off about it. "Suck your cock and stare up at you the entire fucking time."

Chris' eyes roll back in his head, and James is near to exploding from what they're doing, what he's saying.

"I jerk off to that," James tells him, and then talking is impossible, because Chris is attacking his mouth with lips and teeth, and pinning him against the wall so damn hard that James can't do anything but let Chris have his way. Let him grind against him and bring them closer and closer.

And then the chanting starts again. Just his name, strung together an infinite number of times, and James is gone. Arches his back, freezes when his muscles all contract at once, and it's there, just a half-second away. And then it shoots through him, hits everything at once and he's screaming Chris' name against Chris' shoulder as he jerks and comes and Chris pushes against him, four, five more times and screams wordlessly when he comes, the sound breaking off and becoming soundless as his hips twitch against James'.

They shake and shudder, locking their knees to stay upright and still falling against each other and the wall. James tries to get his breath, wonders why he's so fucking hot and realizes they're both fully clothed, with stains on the front of their jeans.

"Shit," James pants. "That was...shit."

They stumble to the couch, collapse half on top of each other, and Chris blinks dazedly before glancing down at their entwined bodies and laughing. "Fuck. Didn't even get one piece of clothing off between the two of us."

"Feel too damn good to be upset about that," James says.

"Next time, we aim for skin."

***  
.End


	2. Stereogram

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kita, who gives awesome beta.

It's a Wednesday afternoon when James realizes that everything is one-dimensional for him, the layers and depth sucked from the world so that when he blinks he's left with a flatness from which nothing jumps out. A single-planed landscape that's like a cardboard cutout.

It's to be expected after a week of middle-of-the-night wraps and four a.m. calls, fight choreography to master and damnable last minute script changes that make everyone sag and droop.

James naps on the couch in his trailer during the too-infrequent breaks in shooting. Chris is on and off the set, sometimes just getting called in for an hour to tweak a scene to perfection. They don't get any chance to just hang and James doesn't have enough energy in him to regret that. Too much.

The weekend finally limps around and James is with his kid. He sleeps every moment he can and he forgets that the world isn't as flush against itself as he sees it, so he stops looking. That's when it comes back. A three-dimensional, big picture jumping out of flatness, and it's like James has to keep a good distance and run from side to side to keep it all in sight all the time.

He's bouncy and hyper on Monday. So much so that one of the grips asks if he wants a Valium. James turns it down and tries not to be bitchy about being offered one in the first fucking place. Christ, it's not like Boreanaz doesn't have his goofy days. Acker, too, with her damn giggling fits.

They break midway through the day for half an hour so that the sets can be prepped for the next shots. James ducks into his trailer and stops short when he sees Chris on his sofa, watching television. He gives James a grin and a wave.

"The fuck are you doing here?" James asks, closing the door behind him.

"Had to pick up my script. You hear they think one of the couriers is leaking spoilers? Now I've got to haul ass down here to get them myself."

James rolls his eyes. "It's a tragedy, really."

Chris flips him off then shrugs as James goes to the mini-fridge for a drink--definitely nothing with caffeine, and definitely not one of the Red Bulls--then picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter.

"You're not supposed to smoke when you've got those patches on," Chris says with amusement.

"Ripped the fucking thing off three hours ago," James mutters around the cigarette in his mouth and strips off the coat that wardrobe was too distracted to take from him before he left the set. He exhales and it's a relief to actually be smoking again, the action itself far more settling and calming than the nicotine dose he gets from the patch.

He trades off with a bottle of water and the cigarette, pacing through the small space on the opposite side of the trailer from Chris. Not because he doesn't want to go over there, but because he still can't keep fucking still. Since the offer of the Valium, James has been trying not to look too much at things around him because that's what's making him so wired and manic. He's keeping the world in his peripheral vision, blinking so that he doesn't get too clear a look at the depth all around him, and hoping he'll calm the fuck down before he goes back to work.

"Christ, James, you been doing speed or something?"

James flips Chris off and then jumps when someone knocks loudly at the trailer door. "Need you on set, Marsters."

"Fucking hell." He grabs the coat, brushing off ashes that fell there while he was pacing and smoking.

"Mind if I stick around here?" Chris asks

James glances at him, just out of the corner of his eyes. "Why?"

"The Price Is Right is on."

The coat's back on now, dragging James out of reality and into his character, which makes it easier for him to ignore everything that's jumping out at him. He crushes out his cigarette, takes the last swig of his water, and risks a very quick, full-on look at Chris on his way out.

He doesn't bother to think about, much less ask Chris what the deal is with some game show. Just says, "Don't drink all the Red Bull."

The day ends remarkably early due to technical problems that have everyone in "management" cursing and bitching, and the cast cheering and clapping on their way back to their trailers to get their stuff as quickly as possibly. Everyone's hurrying through the parking lot, including James.

He looks up from digging his car keys out of his jeans pocket and there's Chris, three-dimensional against the flat backdrop of the parking lot. Chris is a picture in his own right, one that's made up of smaller ones; Chris singing, his face relaxed and easy; Chris pushing James against the wall of James' trailer, lips parted, hips rocking; Chris on the sofa afterwards, saying that they should aim for skin next time.

"Want to grab a beer or something?" Chris asks as James gets closer.

James looks him up and down, as all the smaller pictures fit together. Waves absently behind him when J beeps his horn as he drives past. "Or something," James replies, letting the words fall thick and rough, watching Chris' eyes get dark.

*

Chris follows James' car through L.A. and off towards James' place. Reason they're going there instead of to Chris' is...well, fuck, who the hell knows? James said to follow him, and he was eye-fucking Chris so damn hard that all Chris could do was nod and get in the car. One thing Chris can say about James is that once James gets something, he fucking really *gets* it. No more oblivious sidestepping, no more games he doesn't even realize he plays because they're, like, ingrained in him. There's just hundred proof eye fucking and that sex voice of his.

Chris adjusts himself with one hand, turns when James does, and remembers that hurried encounter in James' trailer. How James smirked and told Chris about jerking off while thinking about sucking Chris' cock.

Chris adjusts himself again and then fumbles for his cell phone and scrolls through his phonebook while keeping half an eye on the road. Finds James' number and calls it.

"You can't fucking be lost; I see you in my rearview," James says, snorting.

"Not lost, you ass. Just got a question for you."

"What?"

Chris rolls his shoulders, grins even though James can't see it, and asks, "What have you been jerking off to lately?"

James' car jerks to the right a bit before straightening out. "I'm trying to drive, here. Shit."

"You gonna answer?"

"Trying. To drive," James repeats slowly, but there's a hitch in his voice.

"Just give me a little something to hold me over on this long ass drive. Because if we'd gone to my place, we'd already be there."

A long pause, then James' voice, sounding incredulous through the tinny reception. "You're serious."

Fuck yeah he's serious. He spent too damn long trying to get James to understand why he was in James' trailer every second they weren't on set. That was a lot of time wasted and the only payoff there's be so far was a hump-and-come in that damn trailer. Completely clothed, too. Way Chris sees it, James owes him.

"Talk," Chris tells James. "Because we're *still* driving."

"We're in the shower," James begins, quiet and low, and already Chris is thinking that this is a bad idea, because his vision gets a little dim around the edges and James isn't the only one trying to drive.

"Can't get more skin than that," Chris says, and it takes three tries to get that out. Definitely a bad idea.

"I'm leaning against the wall, you're up close. Face to face. You've got both our dicks in your hand and you're jacking both of us off at once."

Chris' foot slams down on the gas and he has to move it to the brake fast before he hits James' car. "Fuck."

"Almost. We're here."

The call ends and Chris taps the gas pedal gently, pulling up behind James and killing the engine. Chris sits behind the wheel, takes some deep breaths, and tries to think of images that'll kill his hard on and make it easier to walk. James raps at his window and leans down when Chris lowers it. More eye fucking and Chris' hard on is a permanent state. Yeah, when James gets something, he really fucking *gets* it. Chris reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of James' neck, pulls him in for a kiss and thinks about the fact that James is *really* going to be getting it pretty soon.

*

James leads Chris into his house, turns on the light, then takes Chris' face in his hands and kisses him. Wide, frantic laps of tongue against tongue, mouths working to give them more access, and Chris' hands on James ass, pulling him in close.

They stumble to James' bedroom, and James keeps their mouths locked, their hands grasping and pulling each other as close as possible.

There were about a dozen other scenes James could have given when Chris asked what he'd jerked off to lately, little scenarios involving Chris that James has played out in his head and stripped his cock to until he came all over himself. They filled James' head in his trailer by himself, and right here at home when he was lying in the bed that's just a few feet away now. And none of them were *exactly* like this, but the general idea's the same, and James pulls his mouth from Chris'. Takes in a breath and forces it out again, because all those scenarios are spinning through his head, like fractured parts of this scenario, and he has to force them back into coherence.

Chris drags his teeth down the side of James' neck, slick little tongue wetting the way, and strangled noises fight their way past James' lips, explode in the air. They sound nothing at all like what he meant to say, which he thinks contained actual words. He can't remember what they might have been, but he's got the vague idea that they were supposed to be something about Chris getting his fucking clothes off right this fucking second and fucking James into the closest available fucking surface.

James' hands are clenched tightly around Chris' upper arms and it hurts his joints when he unwraps his fingers. Chris' tongue and teeth are at his collarbone, sweet and sharp, hot breath against wet skin making James damn near convulse. He fumbles at the hem of Chris' shirt, just the one for a change, pulls it out of the way and finally, fucking finally, he's got his hands on skin. Hot, soft skin that James can't help but explore.

He spreads his fingers out, palms pressed against Chris' abdomen, before he starts moving up, trying to fill his hands with soft skin and hard muscle. Chris' head falls back when he arches into the touch and James flicks at his nipples with thumbs, scrapes them softly with his nails, and Chris' heads snaps up, so damn fast and hard it's got to be painful. If it is, Chris doesn't even notice, because he's too busy attacking James' mouth with his own, his hands shoving their way up the back of James' shirt and digging in to muscle and skin.

It pushes James back a few steps, the way Chris is trying to dive into his mouth, and the backs of his knees bump into the bed. He's about ready to fall, take Chris with him, when Chris pulls his mouth away. Nails drag along James' back, and his own do the same along Chris' chest.

"Skin," Chris says, and his voice is gravelly, his eyes shining darkly. His hands jerk at James' shirt, which does something to pull James' hands out from under Chris' shirt, and it's fucking confusing, all that coordinated movement from Chris when James is trying to remember how the fuck to *breathe*. He blinks twice in quick succession, battling all of Chris' movement, all of the things flashing behind his own eyes, and when he focuses again he isn't wearing a shirt anymore and Chris is breathing heavily, staring at him like he wants to eat James for dinner. Fucking hell.

Most of James is busy watching Chris get sloe-eyed, watching Chris' hands lift, and then feeling them on his chest, the pressure firm, a textural experience for James with the way Chris' calluses scraping along his skin.

The rest of James is shivering with reaction and struggling to regain his calm, to keep everything from shattering into a billion different fragments. His hands move to unbutton Chris' shirt, fingers fighting with the small buttons. He parts it and brings his mouth to Chris' darker skin, which tastes like salt and wide open spaces.

And the mouth on skin is more than enough for both of them. They get entangled in jeans that won't fit over boots, and frustrated with shoelaces that stubbornly knot up. Their breathing is loud and audible, and James thinks his heart is going to give out on account of how hard and fast it's pounding.

Then they're naked and standing in front of each other, and everything slows down for James in a surreal way before the need to touch and feel has him reaching for Chris, jerking him against James.

This time, they fall onto the bed, and Chris licks down James' throat, sucking and swirling his tongue around.

"Fuck, you taste good," Chris says roughly, then sucks a patch of skin by James' collarbone into his mouth.

"Godddamn," James gasps. "No marks. Oh, god."

Chris pushes James onto his back, braces himself over James, and his mouth doesn't stop working tight and hot across James' skin. James remembers the last time, first time, they were like this. Hurried and straining and clothed, and the only difference now is the lack of clothing, the presence of skin.

"What about this?" Chris asks, hovering over him, eyes glittering and dense. "Did you jerk off to this?"

James sets his tongue between his lips. "No, but make it good and I might."

Chris lowers himself one inch at a time, strong arms barely shaking from the strain, and it feels like years before his chest is against James', before his cock is settling right next to James', making them both gasp.

"It'll be good," Chris promises, the words faint and raspy, and then his hips do that same rolling motion that he did in James' trailer, one that James doesn't think he'll ever forget, and their cocks slide against each other, friction and pressure and sweet bolts of pleasure making James' back arch.

James' hands grab at Chris, one tangling in his hair and the other digging into his back, blunt nails scoring lines into the skin. Chris' eyes roll back and his hips press down hard. When he looks at James again, James knows they've had enough damn foreplay. The trailer grinding was more than enough on its own, actually, and this is almost unbearable.

He pushes Chris up, and his intent must be clear because Chris doesn't protest. James reaches under the bed, fumbling for the lotion bottle that fell the last time he jerked off. The condoms are on a tray on the nightstand, and he takes one when he finally gets the lotion. Chris turns him fully on his stomach, his mouth at the nape of James' neck, his hands running down James' sides.

James is shaking, trembling, his muscles wanting to move but only able to jerk and twist where Chris touches him. His field of vision is the headboard, and James shakes his head, because he feels like he's standing in a hall of mirrors, each of which has been cracked. There are a million headboards reflected back at him and James digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub away the seams where everything fits together. Because it's too much, being here, with Chris, like this, and trying to keep everything together.

Chris' hands slide up the back of James' thighs to his ass, spreading him, and James' hands fall from his eyes and he digs his fingers into the pillow under his head just as Chris slides a thick wet finger into him. James arches back and up into it, his legs spreading more, almost painfully far apart now, but he can't help it because he needs more.

"Aw, fuck, James," Chris whispers. "Yeah, like that."

Another finger, both of them sliding in and out, scissoring and widening, and James is curling his legs under him, rising up, pushing back, hands leaving the pillow to grab onto the headboard.

"So fucking ready for it, huh? God, you'd fucking beg if I made you. Yeah, you'd do it. Shit."

Oh, fuck, he would. He knows it and he has to clench his jaw shut, bite down on his tongue, to stop himself from arching his back like a cat in heat, letting his head fall back, and giving Chris a litany of pretty pleases. Just to make goddamn sure he gets it. He makes a choked noise, and Chris' free hand drags up James' back, hard and burning.

"Won't make you beg," Chris whispers, his voice like sand scraping over gravel, and he works another finger into James. "Fuck, hell, gotta be in you."

Chris pulls his fingers out, and there's the sound of the condom being ripped open. He rearranges James on his hands and knees, kneels behind him, and then his cock is there, pushing and pressing, finally moving past that ring of muscle, and James is holding his breath, his eyes closed so tightly that he sees spots. Chris is making noises that aren't entirely human, and James' voice won't make its way to his lips, just stays stuck at the back of his throat in catching little breaths.

And then Chris is fully in and James can feel Chris filling him, throbbing in him, shaking around him, and James' thighs start trembling, the noises rush past his lips in one drawn together moan, and he thinks he might die if Chris doesn't start fucking him instead of just sitting there.

"Oh, fuck, James," Chris groans thickly. "Need to move, have to move."

James swallows. Once, twice, three times. Finally coaxes his voice to his lips. "Move. Fucking *move*."

Chris does, and James feels the effort it takes him to do it carefully, slowly. James drops his head down, fists his hands so he's taking his weight on his forearms and not his wrists. Pushes back hard when Chris pushes forward easy, and Chris' hands tighten on James' hips.

His movements get deeper, faster, harder, and neither of them are using words now, just strings of syllables that don't belong next to each other. James can't find enough air, sucks in too much to try to get enough. His vision gets bright, white coating covering everything and making it fuzzy and unfocused, but he can't really be bothered to give a damn because it's so good. Chris is fucking him as hard as James likes it, wants it, needs it. Almost pounding into him, but not. Riding steadily along that line that mixes in just the right amount of pain. And, fuck, it's been too long since James has been fucked like this.

Chris changes his angle, has James almost screaming at the next thrust when he brushes against James' prostate. Oh, Christ, his dick is hard. Aching. Painful. He starts to reach for it, but Chris shoves his hand back in place, reaches with his own. Almost brutal grip as he pulls James off, and James is shoving back and forward now, trying to do both at once because Chris' hand and hips are synched up, moving forward at the same time, back a moment later.

"Jesus, Chris, stop being a bastard," James hisses.

Harsh laughgroan and then Chris alters the rhythm. Brings his fist down to the base of James' cock just as he pulls almost entirely out of James. And James has no escape anymore, because it's in front of him, behind him, a constant stream of ohfuckinggod with every goddamn movement, every breath he sucks in like a gasp, every exhalation that's like a thick scream, and he doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.

Chris starts moving faster, his strokes getting short, barely pulling out before pushing back in. "James James James," Chris gasps, and his hand twists on James' cock.

Behind James' closed eyes everything's drawing together, images and layers and facets, all pulling tighter and more flush with itself. Everything so impossibly close that the seams between all the smaller pictures disappear, become one, and he wonders, if this goes on long, longer, forever, will it swallow itself, fold in on itself, but he doesn't get to find out.

Because it's there, at the base of his spine, and it's rushing out of him, and the pictures stop pulling closer together, and there's one long moment when James doesn't have to struggle with millions of small easily understood things, or one thing too large and broad to wholly grasp. Just one moment, and then he falls, and the picture shatters, all those pieces flung somewhere out of sight while his body arches and tightens and his mouth falls open but he doesn't make a sound.

He's vaguely aware of Chris groaning behind him, pulling James back one last time with a brutal grip on James' hips before he groansgrowls and falls, a strangled cry fighting its way to James' ears to be heard over the rushing of his blood.

James' arms collapse and he falls against the mattress, his breathing still coming too fast, and Chris pulls away, moves to the side.

James wipes sweat from his eyes, turns his head on the pillow and stares at the wet line of Chris' arm right in front of him. It's a manageable vision, a whole picture that's not made of anything but itself, and it only stays that way for a second or two before it starts to crack, patterns creeping through it like a web of broken glass.

.End


End file.
